The Forgotten Legion

  Your general has butchered and pillaged an entire nation to pay his debts to Crassus and make himself rich, Fabiola thought bitterly. That certainly makes him cold-blooded enough to have raped a lone slave eighteen years ago.

  I need to meet him. Find out if he really is the one.

  'When will I be introduced to Caesar at last?' She batted her eyelashes. 'I want to see the reason for all this adulation.'

  As was his recent custom, Caesar was overwintering at Ravenna, two hundred miles north of Rome. Once Fabiola was settled in the villa, the staff officer would be taking the liburnian up the coast to consult with his master.

  'He has spoken of his desire to meet you also,' said Brutus, looking pleased. His expression changed abruptly. 'But it won't be any time soon. Those damned Optimates in the Senate are putting a lot of pressure on Pompey to break faith and recall him to the city. They want Caesar to stand trial for exceeding his jurisdiction as proconsul in Gaul.'

  'Cato and his henchmen?'

  Brutus scowled in response.

  Fabiola knew a lot about the young senator who had made it his life 's mission to defend the Republic from what he saw as rapacious opportunists. He and other politicians who felt the same way called themselves the Optimates, the best men. Caesar was their number one enemy. A former quaestor, Cato was an excellent public speaker and lived as austerely as his main foe, often wearing black because aspiring politicians wore purple. He had even visited the Lupanar with friends once. Unusually for a noble customer, he had refused all Jovina's offers of women and boys, relaxing in the baths instead. It was a restrained decision that had gained Fabiola's admiration as she had listened to his stimulating conversation from her hiding place.

  'And his crony, Domitius.' He grimaced. 'Caesar is slowly being pushed into a corner.'

  'But he won't give up control of his legions.'

  'Why should he?' Brutus cried. 'After all he 's done for Rome?'

  Fabiola nodded, remembering the recent gossip. Caesar would be treated worse than a dog if he came back to the city as a civilian. 'What if Pompey disbands his?'

  'The crafty sons of whores won't ask him to do that.' Brutus thumped a fist into his palm. 'Double standards.'

  She sighed. Two powerful nobles wrestling for control, both with massive armies at their disposal and a weakened Senate caught in the middle. It did seem as if the Republic was heading inexorably towards civil war.

  It was not long before the liburnian reached Pompeii, bumping against the timbers of the dock and allowing the exhausted slaves to slump over their shipped oars, work done. As a few sailors used boathooks to hold the Ajax in place, others clambered on to the jetty with ropes, tying them securely to large stone bollards. Brutus muttered a few words to the captain, making sure that his ship would be ready to leave at a moment's notice. Carefully holding her dress with one hand, Fabiola let the staff officer help her up off the ship. Docilosa followed close behind.

  Positioned a short distance south of the city, Pompeii's harbour was much smaller than that of Ostia. Fishing vessels rocked in the water alongside the larger shapes of naval triremes. Heavily laden barges filled the opening of the River Sarnus around which the curtain walls had been built. Pompeii was a busy trading port. A ferry packed with passengers furled its sails as it followed them in, pausing on the journey from Misenum to Surrentum at the other end of the bay.

  Dominating the city and harbour, almost overhanging them, was Vesuvius. Fabiola stared up at the huge mountain, taking in the grey clouds covering its peak, the forests greening its upper slopes, the farms and empty fields below. It was an imposing sight.

  'They say Vulcan himself lives up there,' said Brutus. 'Not so sure myself.' He laughed. 'The crater at the top is a miserable damn place. Boiling hot in summer, covered in snow at this time of year. No sign of a god anywhere. But it doesn't stop the locals trying to appease him at Vulcanalia. More fish are thrown into the bonfires that week than get eaten here in a year. Superstitious peasants!'

  The noble cared little for any deities except Mars, the god of war.

  Fabiola shivered, pulling closer her woollen cloak. There was a strong smell of rotting fish and human waste in the cold air. She looked down into the dark water and made a face.

  'Sewage from the town,' declared Brutus. 'Don't worry. There's none of that at the villa. It has proper drains that lead half a mile away.'

  Eight slaves had been waiting miserably on the exposed dock for their arrival. A large litter stood beside them. Leaving the newly freed Docilosa to supervise the offloading of their luggage, Fabiola and Brutus climbed in and set off for the villa.

  Pompeii's streets were almost deserted. Those who were out hurried by on their way to the baths or the market, their necks hunched against the biting wind. An old augur tottered along, holding his blunt-peaked hat tightly to prevent it blowing away. Ragged children ran past, screaming with glee at the bread that they had stolen. Angry shouts followed them.

  The forum was a decent size for a rural town, although it was a work in progress. An unfinished temple to Jupiter occupied the position of prominence in the square, flanked by the usual theatre, public library and other shrines. Statues of the gods were dotted in front of many buildings. A covered market filled most of the open space, the stallholders' cries muted by the bad weather.

  The litter bumped and swayed its way north out of the city for some time. Seemingly unaware that Fabiola was tired from the voyage, Brutus chattered about the villa that they were approaching.

  'It was originally built by a noble family. But a rich pleb bought the place when they fell on hard times nearly thirty years ago,' Brutus said. He winked. 'They got on the wrong side of Sulla.'

  She laughed dutifully at his macabre joke. Thousands of people had died under the dictator's rule.

  'The augurs say that bad luck follows bad men. Or maybe it's because the merchant lived on the Aventine.' Brutus shrugged. 'He had to put the villa on the market two winters ago when there weren't many buyers about.' He smiled. 'I got it for a song.'

  'A merchant?' said Fabiola, leaning forward with sudden interest. 'From the Aventine?'

  He looked surprised. 'Yes. Old, smelly and fat. Why?'

  'What was his name?'

  Brutus ran a hand through his short brown hair, thinking.

  Her heart raced as she waited.

  'Gemellus?' He paused. 'Yes, it was Gemellus.'

  Fabiola's composure slipped and she gasped with delight. The idea that she was the new mistress of her former owner's villa was a dream come true.

  'You know him?' asked Brutus curiously.

  She took his hand and squeezed it. 'He sold me to the Lupanar.'

  'The bastard!' Sudden rage from Brutus was rare and shocking.

  'I would never have met you otherwise,' she said coyly.

  'True.' Calming down, he peered out of the litter. 'If it's any consolation, I've heard that his business has gone down the sewer completely now. He lost an absolute fortune when shiploads of beasts that he had bought for the circus sank on the way over from Egypt.'

  A pang of sadness hit Fabiola. She could remember fantasising with Romulus about trapping wild animals with the bestiarius. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  'The moneylenders were hounding him from dawn till dusk by the end,' Brutus added. 'Even had to sell his house on the Aventine.'

  Relief began to replace the pain. And as the high wall surrounding her new home finally came into sight, Fabiola knew that Jupiter, in the inexplicable way of the gods, was taking care of her in some way.

  Revenge had been granted: Gemellus had become one of the homeless who clogged Rome's streets, begging for alms from the rich. As someone who valued money above all else, the merchant's life had been ruined more completely than by a swift knife between the ribs down an alleyway. It was a suitable punishment, she thought, although it would have been even sweeter to have knocked on Gemellus' door and informed him that she, Fabiola, was to have his beloved villa. Her
only regret was that Romulus and her mother were not present to share her joy. But they would be watching her from the other side.

  Now, as the lover of a powerful noble, Fabiola could concentrate fully on discovering the identity of her father. Brutus, whether he knew it or not, was the key. He would happily facilitate her entry into Roman society at the highest level, an equal to those who had once sneered. The clues would be there somewhere. They could even be close to home.

  It would take time, but Fabiola would not rest until her mother had been avenged.

  Chapter XXIX: The March

  East of Seleucia, autumn 53 BC

  The desolate landscape stretched into infinity.

  Behind the soldiers, an immense range of mountains ran from north to south, the snow-capped tops a stark contrast to the sandy plain far below. It had taken weeks to negotiate countless narrow passes, icy streams and winding paths along cliff edges. Hundreds of legionaries had perished in landslides or died of exposure. The bare slopes had provided little in the way of fuel and the occasional goat brought down by an arrow could not feed everyone. Dried meat, unleavened bread and sheer determination had carried the remaining prisoners over the jagged peaks.

  That and the instant execution awaiting any man refusing to march. Parthian discipline was even harsher than Roman.

  The column of over nine thousand soldiers had excitedly made its way down a winding track that morning. Just reaching flat ground had felt like success. Low dunes rose smoothly on either side as another desert prepared to welcome them. The sky was clear of clouds, its only inhabitants the ubiquitous vultures.

  But the wilderness was not as intimidating as before Carrhae. These men had been through unbelievable suffering, seen unimaginable things. This was just another trial to be endured. Survived.

  Romulus adjusted the cloth covering his head and wiped away sweat. Like that of everyone else, the young soldier's helmet dangled from the yoke over one shoulder. There was little need to wear it, with no enemies for hundreds of miles.

  Brennus and Tarquinius marched confidently beside him. During the passage of the mountains, their survival skills had helped keep the remaining men of the Sixth alive. The pelts of the wolves Tarquinius had trapped served as blankets and Brennus had regularly brought down goats or antelope with a bow he had procured from a guard.

  With all senior officers dead, a power vacuum had been left in the ranks. Soldiers needed someone in charge and with so many men from different legions, it had been difficult to organise the Roman prisoners. Sensibly the Parthian officers who had been placed in command banded together the men who had served in the same unit, but there had been an inevitable reluctance to obey more than basic orders since leaving the capital two months earlier.

  Many legionaries now looked to Tarquinius as an unofficial leader. He had been treating the wounded for months, and his ability to predict the future was also well known throughout the column. The Etruscan's understanding of the Parthian language had naturally attracted their captors' attention. The mystical skills he showed also earned respect. In recognition, Tarquinius had been made the equivalent of a centurion, answering to the officer commanding one of the reformed cohorts. Although the haruspex was not a regular, taking orders from one of their own was easier to stomach.

  So far, the Etruscan's cohort was the only one to have been re-armed, a source of real pride for Romulus and Brennus. But only Tarquinius knew why. The rest were relieved not to have to carry any more for a time. A train of mules behind carried the remaining weapons, food and water.

  'When will we reach Margiana?' asked Romulus.

  'Five to six weeks,' replied the Etruscan.

  He groaned. Located on the northeast border of the Parthian empire, their destination never seemed to get any nearer.

  'At least those bastards have to walk too.' Brennus indicated the warriors to either side of the column.

  The prisoners might outnumber the Parthians twenty to one, but it meant little. They were now more than a thousand miles northeast of Seleucia and there was nowhere to go, no point in resisting. Only the dark-skinned natives knew the exact locations of the life-saving waterholes in the vast emptiness of sand and the Romans had no choice but to follow. Without water no one could survive.

  'Why didn't they send cataphracts to guard us?' asked Romulus.

  'Rome doesn't accept defeat easily,' said Brennus. 'Orodes is probably saving them in case of another attack.'

  Tarquinius chuckled. 'The king might not know it, but nobody wants revenge. Caesar won't be too happy having lost his sponsor, but he 's far too busy with other matters. And Pompey will be delighted that Crassus is out of the equation. This will let him concentrate on Caesar.'

  Romulus sighed. Italian politics meant little here. 'If Rome doesn't retaliate, how can there be any chance of returning home?' he muttered. 'We are in the middle of nowhere, heading for the ends of the earth.'

  'We will make our own way back,' whispered Tarquinius.

  The Gaul did not hear the comment. 'We are the Forgotten Legion!' he cried cynically, pointing forward.

  All eyes followed his outstretched arm.

  Pacorus, the Parthian officer in charge, had shrewdly obtained one silver eagle from the booty after Carrhae. While the others decorated Orodes' palace, his was constantly positioned at the head of the column.

  Brennus stabbed a finger at the metal bird again, recognising its significance. The standard was vital to the Parthian's new command and had become the soldiers' most important possession. A growl of pride left men's throats. There had been little to cheer about since Carrhae – till now.

  The guards listened curiously, but did not respond straight away. Discipline was less strict now than when they had left the city. Enough men had been executed to keep the rest in line. But until an enemy was in sight, their new-found trust only went so far.

  Tarquinius smiled. 'A good name.'

  'It has a certain ring to it,' Romulus admitted.

  'Good!' Brennus paused, turning to face the ranks following. 'The Forgotten Legion!'

  Quickly the Gaul's cry was taken up and the sound rose into hot, windless air.

  As roars surged down the column, many Parthians became alarmed and began to reach for their weapons. This had never happened before.

  Pacorus was riding nearby and he leaned over in the saddle to speak to Tarquinius. When the answer came, the commander smiled and barked a response. The warriors relaxed at his words. Spurring his horse to the front, Pacorus went to check for signs of other travellers. He was not one to lead from behind.

  'What did he want?' asked Romulus.

  'To know why we shouted. I told him we were the Forgotten Legion and he replied that much was expected of us.'

  Brennus grinned, pleased at the response to his cry.

  'He also said that our gods have forsaken us.'

  'They turned their backs when we crossed the river,' said Felix. The resourceful little Gaul had attached himself to the trio after leaving Seleucia.

  'Maybe on some,' replied Brennus seriously. 'But not on the Forgotten Legion.'

  'Perhaps you're right.' Felix made the sign against evil. 'We 're still alive!'

  Romulus agreed and silently thanked Jupiter for his protection. Something made him glance at the Etruscan, who had a faint smile playing on his lips. Nothing about the trek eastwards ever upset him, which he found strange. Although Brennus now seemed content with his lot, every other man worried about marching further from the known world. But Tarquinius positively relished it. Every few days he would write notes on the ancient map, describing what he had seen and explaining them to Romulus if he asked. Thanks to these lessons, the young soldier had also come to enjoy the journey and to respect the burning deserts and mighty peaks they had crossed. The image of Alexander in his mind had grown to near mythical status. The Lion of Macedon must have been an extraordinary leader, he thought. Perhaps Tarquinius is retracing his steps.